April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

it may be said of me by Harper & Brothers, that although I reject their proposals, I welcome their advances.

This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales; Pity me that the heart is slow to learn, that the swift mind beholds at every turn.

What should I be but just what I am?

After the feet of beauty fly my own.

That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

Time can make soft that iron wood.